


The Seven Months Affair

by Jazline



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: Seven long months has passed since Napoleon Solo became Thrush's "guest"...or so it seemed....
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

_Napoleon Solo looked down through the thick plate glass to the floor below. His heart was heavy with the feeling of betrayal and it took every ounce of his remaining strength not to cave in to the emotions bubbling near the surface. Illya Kuryakin, his partner... his former partner... lay still on the conveyer belt inching him towards the low doors of the crematorium.  
  
The former UNCLE agent gulped back his pain. This was all his doing - the death of his closest friend and colleague, the demise of UNCLE, the dire situation of the world at large. Had he been a little stronger, perhaps able to hold on a little more to the stubborn streak which, in the past, had kept him from caving in to Thrush for just a short while longer, he could have changed the course of events.  
  
Behind him stood a Thrush guard overseeing Kuryakin’s cremation, forcing Napoleon to bear witness to something Thrush knew would be unbearably difficult for him.  
  
But Solo did so commendably. Hopefully no one would notice his knuckles turning white as his fingers wrapped tightly around the handgrips of his crutches. The small beads of sweat forming on his brow would hopefully be overlooked by the cameras he knew were keeping watch on his every move. Perhaps no one would see how difficult it was for him to breathe.  
  
He stood stone-faced as he watched the rubber belting remove Kuryakin’s body from the room below. Stone-faced until he noticed an almost imperceptible tremor in Illya’s right hand.  
  
“He’s still alive!” Solo gasped. Immediately he pivoted towards the emergency shut-off button he had noticed the moment he entered the observation room.  
  
The Thrush guard blocked his path, but Napoleon barged past him, felling him with one swift stroke of his right crutch.  
  
The emergency shut-off was inoperable. The belt kept creeping slowly towards the crematory door. Napoleon dropped his crutches and grabbed the only other object in the room - a stool. He quickly hobbled to the window and swung the stool into it. It did not break on first impact, but the noise it made resounded through the chamber below.  
  
Napoleon caught quick sight of blue eyes staring at him through the cracked glass. He swung the stool again, this time shattering the window. Steadying himself on the windowframe, he pushed out the remaining bottom glass with the cast covering his left leg.  
  
Within seconds he had lowered his body to less than four feet to the floor below. Gritting his teeth, he released his hands and dropped to the concrete. Pain shot through his left leg as the thigh-high cast clunked upon impact.  
  
He immediately spun around to pull Illya off the conveyer belt. More time had lapsed than he realized and the lower portion of Kuryakin’s body was already through the small door. Solo hopped and hobbled to the Russian’s retreating body with outstretched fingers, hoping to gain grasp of some part of him.  
  
He was too late.  
  
The automatic door slid shut and locked as his fingertips reached it. He pulled and pounded on the metal, but it would not relent.  
  
The red warning lights above the door illuminated, warning those nearby that the door would heat up, and to keep a distance. As Solo pounded he felt the temperature increase.  
  
He ran to the side of the chamber and stared through the small glass porthole. Napoleon watched as the flames grew higher, hotter. He caught sight of Illya’s eyes darting around helplessly, finally locking on to his. The UNCLE CEA tried breaking the glass with his fists, but his attempts were futile. He watched the blue eyes finally close and the flames engulf him.  
  
Solo finally shut his eyes in exasperation, trying to block out the images of Illya Kuryakin laying amidst the flames, dazed, unable to free himself from the inferno about to consume him._

_  
  
* * * * *_

Napoleon Solo gasped awake, sweating profusely and shaking from the recurring nightmare damning his sleep. His heart beat so furiously it felt as though it would break free of his chest. It was always the same. There was no way in hell he could have saved his partner, or rather, his former partner. In the five and a half months since Illya died, there had been no respite from the dreams, just cold, chilling images of the Russian being inched to his death.  
  
He sat up and rubbed his temples, trying to rid himself of the still-painful memories. Even if he had been able to reach Illya, the end result would have been the same - Kuryakin’s demise. The Russian’s stubbornness would have prevented him from taking Solo’s chosen path of self-preservation. Napoleon had mentally played and replayed the scenario hundreds of times since Illya died, and each time the curtain went down with Illya as dead as before.  
  
Exhausted, he lay back down and covered his eyes with his forearm, silently wiping the sweat from his brow. Napoleon did not want the prying lens of the surveillance equipment seeing him any more stressed than necessary.  
  
It only took a few moments for him to compose himself. His timing had improved dramatically since Illya’s death.  
  
He uncovered his eyes and reached over the mattress for Alicia, but she was gone. Another early morning, he assumed. Her scent lingered.  
  
Alicia.  
  
Alicia had entered his life three months ago. A minor underling in the Thrush regime, she had been attracted to Napoleon Solo from the moment he joined their ranks. She was beautiful, seductive, his “type.” But the passion never really materialized for him, not that it would have mattered who shared his bed. His usual lust for women diminished when he was defeated by Thrush. She became merely a convenience, a warm body next to him.  
  
Solo’s eyes cast downward, catching a glimpse of his pajama top. Obviously no sex last night. He cringed slightly at the Thrush insignia gracing the left side of his chest, over his heart... as though the collective Thrush mentality even had one.  
  
Finally he sat up and brought his legs over the side of the bed. He stretched slightly while looking around his current bedroom. Simple decor, utilitarian, void of the personality his penthouse in New York surrounded him with.  
  
Hmmm - New York. His apartment. His former life. Napoleon was tempted to simply lay back down and forget he had a day ahead of him.  
  
Christ, I’m depressed! he thought. Gotta get over this.  
  
He missed his old life, his work with UNCLE, Illya, traveling throughout the world saving humanity from the forces of Thrush. Shit - now he was one of them. Yes, he was depressed. And had been for months.  
  
It had been seven months since he’d seen the true light of day or anything at all from his past. It was as through he had had no life whatsoever before Thrush.  
  
He was like a man without a country, caught adrift on a raft. Thrush had him, UNCLE wanted him. He had betrayed UNCLE with the highest level of treason by succumbing to Thrush’s barbaric tactics, finally divulging secrets, facts, and information which lead to the annihilation of UNCLE North America.  
  
Now Napoleon Solo was a marked man, unable to set foot outside the sanctuary of Thrush’s walls. He knew that the moment he did, it would only be a matter of time before whatever remaining UNCLE strongholds were left would track him down.  
  
But this too shall end, Napoleon kept reminding himself. After all, he had made a vow...  
  
Shaking all the negative thoughts from his head, he finally stood and walked to the bedroom door. Damn! His left leg still hurt. When would the pain go away? He opened the door slightly and stuck his head out.  
  
“Good morning, Mr. Solo,” the usual voice greeted.  
  
“’Morning, Simmons,” Napoleon returned by rote.  
  
Lenny Simmons was sitting at the kitchen table, as usual, reading the morning paper over his cup of coffee, as usual.  
  
“Can I fix you breakfast?” Simmons asked.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What would you like?”  
  
“The usual.”  
  
Two softly scrambled eggs and toast with black coffee. The usual. One less decision.  
  
If it wasn’t Simmons, it was either Jacoby or Hamilton. Regardless, they were one of the perks of his position with Thrush. A personal assistant, a valet. Napoleon huffed at the thought.  
  
‘Personal assistant’ my ass, he thought when Thrush informed him of their services. They’re here to keep an eye on me.  
  
Solo assumed their jobs were to watch over during the day, while Alicia’s real role was to keep tabs on him throughout the night.  
  
The door closed and he retreated back into his bedroom to undress. Napoleon unbuttoned and removed the pajama top, his muscles still reacting slightly to the abuse they had endured seven months prior.  
  
On the way to the bathroom he couldn’t help but catch his image in the large mirror over the dresser. He cringed as he looked at the mass of scars across his chest, back, arms, and shoulders. Gingerly, he ran his right hand over his left shoulder, tracing the remnants of the raised welts with his fingertips. Memories of the torture flooded back to him, followed by memories of Thrush’s triumph over him and then the months of recovery. Deep in his heart, he realized he never did fully recover, and doubted he ever would.  
  
He next peeled off the pajama bottoms and looked at the rest of his body in the mirror. More scars. He lifted his left foot on to the edge of the dresser and ran his hands over the newly-healed bones in his shin. The bones had been broken in several places, shattering them almost to the point where amputation became a possibility. He could feel the distinct bony bumps beneath the skin where the bones had knit.  
  
Then he looked up and caught the image of his face in the mirror. The reddish scar running diagonally from the outer corner of his right eye almost down to the edge of his lip seemed more prominent this morning. He gently ran his fingertips over that scar as well.  
  
Napoleon shut his eyes, lowered his left foot, then headed to the bathroom for his morning shower.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
To Napoleon’s recollection, the grueling ordeal began in the beginning of July and it was almost seven months to the day since he had been captured by Thrush. On this particular occasion, any rescue attempt came too late, and Napoleon had been abducted and removed to a location so deeply hidden that even UNCLE with all its resources couldn’t find him.  
  
For ten days, Solo had been completely at their mercy, enduring more than even he thought possible. At sporadic intervals, groups of Thrush guards would appear, announcing their arrival first by the sound of their boots echoing through the hallway. Like Pavlov’s dog, the mere sound of the boots evoked a streak of terror in Napoleon. He knew what would lay ahead. The louder the sound, the more agitated the UNCLE CEA became. Although he did his damnedest to hide the fear from his captors, deep inside, the gnawing anxiety ate away at his very being. Towards the end, it became impossible to mask his trembling.  
  
Cuts, bruises, and welts covered him. Injured literally from head to foot, Thrush had done their damnedest to get him talk. The blood-soaked mattress atop the concrete slab lay testament to his abuse. But Napoleon remained stubborn, refusing to divulge any of the information Thrush demanded of him.  
  
His body, bruised, bloody, and broken, lay still in the corner of his small cell. He had only vague memories of the last time the Thrush guards came in to remove him, hoping this would be ‘it’. His endurance had ebbed to practically nonexistent and death would be a welcomed friend. This final time, the guards did not even bring back-up. There was no need. Solo’s strength had weakened to the point that he was completely incapable of mounting the slightest of offenses. The shattered bones in his left leg prevented him from standing, let alone escaping. So much of his blood stained the mattress and floor he was drained of life itself.  
  
The guards lifted him in what seemed like an effortless motion and half carried, half dragged him through an unfamiliar route in Thrush headquarters. The trek was shrouded in a haze of pain. Napoleon gave up trying to maintain consciousness, hoping for the blackness that could give him temporary relief from this hellish existence. It never came.  
  
They ended up in a large, brightly lit room. Clean. Antiseptically clean. With hugh overhead lights and a stainless steel table in the center. Glass-fronted cabinets lined the room’s perimeter, filled with bottles and boxes of varying sizes and colors.  
  
A sink stood in one corner with a large mirror over it. A large man in a white coat stood facing the mirror, his back towards Napoleon and the two Thrush guards. Through puffy, squinted eyes, Solo caught a quick glimpse of the man’s reflection. Norris Campbell. Dr. Norris Xavier Campbell.  
  
Before Napoleon had a chance to dwell on Campbell’s presence, the two Thrush guards lifted him onto the stainless steel table, grasping him firmly at the armpits and behind the knees. His world dimmed as he made contact with the table. The pain reverberated through his body. He yelped in pain. It was useless trying to swallow his outbursts.  
  
Four strong hands maintained their grips until Dr. Campbell came over. Two assistants, one male, one female, materialized out of nowhere and were soon standing by Campbell, watching Napoleon Solo struggle feebly under the handholds of the guards.  
  
Norris Campbell grinned. Or was it a smirk? Napoleon couldn’t differentiate.  
  
“Am I to assume your stay with us has been unpleasant so far?” Campbell asked.  
  
Napoleon refused to respond.  
  
A few seconds passed before one of the guards backhanded him across the right side of his face, re-opening the wound which had only recently stopped bleeding.  
  
“Answer him!” the guard snapped.  
  
Solo only glared at him and gritted his teeth, maintaining his stubbornness. The guard raised his hand to strike again, but Dr. Campbell stopped him.  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” Norris Campbell said, his fingers gingerly touching the gash on the right side of Napoleon’s cheek. “I think he’s ready.”  
  
Through the haze of pain Napoleon searched his brain for anything he could readily recall about the doctor. All that he intellect could dredge up was scant, blurry thoughts of Campbell’s experiments with mind control. A chill ran through the UNCLE CEA.  
  
Dr. Norris Xavier Campbell felt he was ready.  
  
Napoleon used every last ounce of strength to try to free himself from the guards’ grasps. While he struggled, Solo noticed the assistants pulling up four-point restraints from beneath the table. Dr. Campbell stopped them as well.  
  
“Put him out!” was the last thing that Napoleon Solo heard.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  
A strange, eerie calmness surrounded Napoleon Solo as he woke. His training taught him to ease into wakefulness, to acclimate himself to surroundings before disclosing his state of consciousness. This time, he racked his brain for information about what preceded the blackness. Slowly, very slowly, his brain sent the signals of cognizance. Memories of what happened in his recent past began returning.  
  
“He appears to be coming around,” a female voice remarked. She sounded close.  
  
“Good. Very good,” another voice returned.  
  
Solo’s eyes opened a little, then clamped shut in response to the intense light in the room.  
  
“Dim the lights, will you?” the second voice softly instructed.  
  
Feet shuffled away from where he lay and seconds later the glare radiating beyond his closed eyelids dimmed.  
  
“You should be more comfortable now, Mr. Solo,” the same voice said. “Try opening your eyes.”  
  
Obediently, Napoleon gradually opened his eyes, looking around in what appeared to be a hospital room. The images were all fuzzy, his eyes unfocused. The room was clean, quiet, comfortable.  
  
His mind immediately began weighing his options. A feeling if security washed over him when he thought he was in one of UNCLE’s medical suites, but the layout of the room was not at all familiar. His next thought strayed to the possibility that he was still with Thrush. But the implausibility of Thrush offering him any degree of comfort negated that notion. Had he died? Was this his afterlife?  
  
The man who owned the quiet voice loomed closer, and as Napoleon’s vision sharpened, the blur on the left side of the lab coat revealed a gray Thrush insignia. Below it identified the man as ‘Dr. Norris X. Campbell’.  
  
The secure feeling quickly dissipated and Solo steeled himself for whatever action he would need to take, whether it be defensive or offensive.  
  
Dr. Campbell checked the equipment attached to various parts of Solo’s body, raised the agent’s eyelids to check the pupils, felt for the pulse in his neck, then pressed his belly for tenderness and finally felt for warmth in is toes. His actions were professional - non-threatening, calming.... humane. He stood by the side of the bed when he was finished.  
  
“Well, you look a little healthier than the last time you were awake,” the doctor mused quietly. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Napoleon opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself before the words “confused” and “numb” and “weary” escaped his lips. In the few short moments since regaining consciousness, he was unable to pinpoint exactly how he felt.  
  
He was indeed numb, feeling no pain whatsoever. Generally that feeling of total insentientia was an anathema to him... a feeling of not being in control, not having the ability to read his body’s own signals. But as the memories of his previous predicament surfaced, he decided he preferred this current state of numbness.  
  
And he was confused. Confused by the comfort afforded him. Confused by Campbell’s civility. Confused by the care he had obviously received. Not at all like Thrush.  
  
Lastly he was weary. Bone tired. He felt as though he had been through the proverbial wringer. But after the beatings he had sustained, the fatigue was understandable.  
  
Norris Campbell moved a little closer. Napoleon hoped he was concealing the cringe which welled within as the Thrush doctor neared. Solo suddenly realized he was not in restraints. Finding the strength, he raised his right arm in an offensive gesture, hoping to keep the doctor at a distance.  
  
But Dr. Norris Xavier Campbell kept a relaxed posture and tried to appear as non-threatening as possible.  
  
“Take it easy, Mr. Solo,” he said, again softly, physically lowering Napoleon’s arm. “It’s over. All done. You did great.”  
  
...did great?  
  
The words went through the senior agent like a bolt of lightning.  
  
Finally, Napoleon found his voice.  
  
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said weakly.  
  
Campbell raised his eyebrows and smiled. “How silly of me. Of course you wouldn’t know. After all, you’ve been unconscious for almost a week.”  
  
“A week?” Solo struggled to sit up.  
  
“Almost. Six days to be exact,” the doctor informed while motioning for one of his assistants to raise the head of the bed. It took only a moment to bring Napoleon’s torso upright.  
  
The CEA looked down at himself. From beneath the hospital gown, wires attached to his skin on various parts of his body. His limbs were bandaged and his entire left leg, from the thigh to the foot, was encased in a bandaged metal splint and raised in traction. Only his toes protruded.  
  
Solo closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillow. He realized be would be going nowhere for awhile.  
  
“OK,” Napoleon sighed. “I’ll bite. What exactly did I do that was so great?”  
  
A smile, followed by a chuckle, preceded Campbell’s words: “Thanks to you, Napoleon Solo, UNCLE North America no longer exists.”  
  
Solo stared at him blankly for a moment, unable to comprehend the meaning of the words.  
  
“That’s impossible!” Solo finally responded.  
  
“Not really, my friend. You were kind enough to give us all the information we needed to finally destroy your North American headquarters. UNCLE in New York City is gone.”  
  
Napoleon sat silently as the words sunk in. He was sure Norris Xavier Campbell was trying one of his Thrush ploys to get him to cooperate. Torture and coercion did not work - perhaps the doctor was under the delusion that drugs and mind games would.  
  
The thought of UNCLE’s New York headquarters having been destroyed was unfathomable. There was no way in hell that he would have given up any information at all; his track record had proven that. And enough information to sabotage the entire command in North America? Solo doubted it.  
  
“Well, I can definitely understand your disbelief, Mr. Solo. But don’t take my word for it....” Dr. Campbell said as he handed Napoleon the remote control for the television set perched on a shelf high in the corner of the room. “...see for yourself.”  
  
Solo’s eyes slowly moved towards the black screen of the television.  
  
“... and if that doesn’t quell your suspicions, I have a pile of newspapers from around the globe for you to read,” Norris Campbell continued. “I also have our file photos.” The doctor waved a large manilla envelope. “But don’t take my word for it, Mr. Solo. See for yourself.”  
  
Before Napoleon could find the words to respond, Campbell had turned on his heels and left the room. His associates followed, leaving Solo alone with the TV and the pile of newspapers.  
  
The CEA automatically clicked the power button on the remote, flipping through a few stations until he caught a news story on Channel Four. The television anchorman was standing in front of Del Floria’s shop, microphone in hand, giving the viewers an update on the recent explosions which rocked the lower east side of town. He did not have full details to report, but Solo knew the explosions had originated from within UNCLE.  
  
He twisted his body to be within reach of the newspapers on the nightstand. The top newspaper was the July 15th edition of The New York Times, prominently displaying the story on page one. He read the details. Although the reporter admitted that at press time the details were still sketchy, he gave as much information as possible.  
  
The agent’s hand quickly reached for the next paper - The Chicago Tribune, dated July 15th as well. Nothing on the front page. But page two had the story.  
  
The remaining newspapers all carried the story with varying detail as well.  
  
Napoleon turned his attention again to the television and pressed a few more buttons on the remote, going through three more channels before coming across another news station relaying the report. Only this time, close-up photos of the damage were available. Cameramen had gotten through the charred remains of UNCLE headquarters and were transmitting images of the wreckage. Although the images were were mangled and charred, he could identify the stainless steel in the film as what was probably some of his former headquarter’s hallways.  
  
He reached for the manilla envelope next, opened it and slowly gazed over the photos within. The images were more graphic than those in the newspaper or on television. These were Thrush’s own file photos. The photographer documented the carnage in detail.  
  
Picture after picture depicted the destruction wrought on The Command. People laying on the floor where they crumpled. Agents, secretaries, lab personnel, young employees and those more seasoned. All dead. The final two photos were of Alexander Waverly, seated in his leather chair. Someone stood behind him with a handful of the Old Man’s hair, keeping the head upright in the first one. The second showed Waverly with his head slumped forward slightly, his blood running down his white shirt. His throat had been slit.  
  
Solo choked up at the image. The man had been like a father to him, fair, firm, expecting hard work and his complete loyalty. And he had let Waverly down, let all of UNCLE down, succumbing to Thrush.  
  
Nausea rose in his throat. He suddenly felt lightheaded, confused. There was no way in hell that Thrush could have gotten sufficient information from him to do this kind of damage.  
  
Suddenly, his thoughts shifted to the more personal side of headquarters - his co-workers, his boss, Illya. Was he to assume they were all gone as well? His throat began to close, suffocating him.  
  
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes tightly, gritted his teeth. Finally his emotions broke loose and he screamed out loud.

...to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

The next three weeks were spent in a drugged haze. Napoleon Solo did not remember much of what happened to him during that time, just vague memories of people in white coats coming and going, having food trays delivered and removed, being poked and prodded and tended to. No pain, no threats, no typical Thrush violence.  
  
He slept a lot. Too much, perhaps. But when he awoke after particularly long lapses of slumber, Dr. Campbell and his cronies were around, smiling and making sure he was comfortable. As time went on, Solo realized that they were extracting additional information from him during those periods. The agent silently cursed his physical weakness and the hold Thrush now had on him.  
  
In one of his more lucid moments, Napoleon demanded to know where they were holding him. Dr. Campbell told him that they were within a Thrush secured facility just outside Weatogue, Connecticut, not far from Hartford.  
  
“It’s rather self-sustaining,” Norris X. Campbell explained. He chuckled. “Almost like UNCLE used to be. We’re several different floors beneath a ‘Kitchens and Bath’ design store above. Right now, you and I are on the first subterranean level. Other labs, housing, and offices are on the floors below us.” He paused and winked. “Of course you’re familiar with the prison cells and interrogation areas on the lowest level.”  
  
“Intimately,” Napoleon sighed.  
  
“You could spend loads of time in here and never have to set foot outside into the real world.” Campbell’s cheerfulness grated on Napoleon’s nerves.  
  
By the end of the third week, Solo was deemed fit enough to leave the Thrush medical suite. Most of the bandages were gone and his left leg was completely encased in a plaster cast from the thigh to his toes.  
  
The agent had not regained enough strength to use crutches, so he was seated in a wheelchair and taken to one of Thrush’s in-house living quarters on the floor beneath the medical suites. The compact but complete apartment would now be is home-away-from-home. The kitchen was even stocked with what seemed to be all of his favorite foods. Napoleon wondered how in the world they knew what he liked to eat. As he looked through the cabinets, he assumed he divulged that information along with the other sensitive data they extracted from him.  
  
During those three weeks he was gradually weaned from the intravenous medications and painkillers. Slowly, some of the pain began to return. He was treated with oral doses of morphine which only added to his haze.  
  
Still too weak to fight back or even plan any sort of escape attempt, Napoleon resigned himself to being Thrush’s “guest.” A deep depression had taken hold. The weighty guilt of having absolutely no control over what he was divulging had shaken him to the core. He was now not only responsible for the demise of UNCLE Headquarters in New York, the information he had passed on to Thrush began the ruination of other UNCLE installations throughout the world.  
  
In a week, he had mustered the strength to use crutches, adding to his mobility. Although Thrush no longer treated him like a hostile threat, they did not trust him enough to give him full access to the satrapy. His clearance gave him access to a few common areas, some of the medical suite, his living quarters, and a commissary. The rest of the building was off-limits.  
  


  
  
Several days later, rumors floated throughout the installation that Illya Kuryakin had recently been captured and was being detained below in a holding cell. Solo wasn’t sure whether or not his clearance would permit him going that deep into Thrush’s installation, but he felt he had to try.  
  
Absolutely no one prevented him.  
  
Napoleon stopped in his tracks when he saw his partner - his former partner - sitting on the floor, propped up in the corner of a small cell. Judging from the condition of his wounds, he had been there longer than “just recently.” He was bruised and bloody, his face swollen with trails of dried smeared blood trailing from his nose and mouth. His right shoulder drooped unnaturally, indicating either dislocation or fracture.  
  
“Open the door!” Solo demanded as he neared the cell.  
  
The guard refused, drawing his rifle to ready as Napoleon came near.  
  
“Didn’t you hear me, you cretin?” Napoleon snarled. He tried pushing past the guard.  
  
The guard, a six-foot-tall muscular, burly man, grabbed Solo’s left upper arm and slammed him into the side wall. The impact knocked Napoleon off his feet, causing him to teeter on the crutches.  
  
The agent quickly got his bearings and came back at the guard, with his right crutch poised to strike.  
  
“It’s all right, Madison!” a voice over the intercom barked. “Let him in.”  
  
The guard, Charles Madison, halted his attack, nodded to the camera, and opened the cell door for Napoleon Solo.  
  
“Mr. Solo...” the intercom voice continued.  
  
Solo spun around and glared at the camera.  
  
“...see if you can talk some sense into your friend.” A faint click indicated that the discussion was over.  
  
Napoleon quickly hobbled into the cell, amazed that Illya had survived Thrush’s destruction of UNCLE.  
  
“I can’t believe...” Solo began as he leaned his back against the wall near Illya and slid down, sitting besides the Russian.  
  
But the reception was not at all cordial. Illya squinted at the khaki-clad Thrushman seated by him, then closed his eyes and turned his head away. Napoleon was momentarily confused, then realized that the Thrush uniform he wore was the reason.  
  
“So it’s true,” Illya rasped, his voice barely a whisper.  
  
A lump rose in Solo’s throat, almost closing the airway completely. “Illya,...I..I..”  
  
“This was all your doing, wasn’t it?” Venom dripped from Kuryakin’s voice.  
  
Napoleon shook his head “no” then looked down and slowly nodded, his breathing irregular.  
  
“Damn you!” Then Illya Kuryakin turned his head away again.  
  
No explanation would right the wrongs Napoleon Solo had unknowingly committed against UNCLE, his colleagues, himself. This had, indeed, been all his doing, regardless of the fact that he had been drugged into divulging the information necessary to bring about UNCLE’s demise.  
  
Kuryakin wanted nothing to do with him and finally called for the guard to remove him from the cell.  
  
“Go ahead, Madison,” the intercom voice instructed. “Let Solo out and terminate Kuryakin. He’s useless to us at this point. Solo has given us more than enough of the information we need.”  
  
Charles Madison obediently opened the cell door and hurried in, grabbing the battered Russian by the hair and the arm of his injured shoulder. He dragged him out of the prison.  
  
Seconds later, Napoleon Solo was alone in the cell, the door wide open.  
  
But Solo was unable to move; he felt like he was bolted to the floor. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity before he heard the sound of Charles Madison’s boots announcing his return. An instantaneous chill ran through him, that particular sound indelibly etched in his memory from when he was the prisoner in that cell. In true Pavlovian style, beads of sweat formed across his forehead. It took only seconds for the reality to register in his brain when he saw an unconscious Illya Kuryakin slung over Madison’s shoulder.  
  
“You’re still here?” the Thrush guard bellowed as he carelessly deposited Kuryakin in the cell.  
  
Words could not come to Napoleon.  
  
Madison reached for his walkie-talkie and summoned the voice which had previously dictated commands via the intercom.  
  
“Whaddaya want me to do with ‘em?” Madison asked, referring to Solo.  
  
“Obviously our newest member wants to reconnect with his former partner, so let him be for awhile,” the faceless voice ordered.  
  
The guard chuckled and walked out of the cell, locking the door behind him.  
  
Napoleon maneuvered himself close to Kuryakin, his cumbersome cast scraping on the concrete floor.  
  
He looked at the Russian for a moment before touching him. Kuryakin’s breaths were shallow, his pulse weak and thready. The beating he had just sustained left him barely alive.  
  
The blue eyes remained shut. Solo was inwardly glad his friend was unconscious, protecting him from the pain he would surely feel if awake.  
  
“I am so sorry,” Napoleon whispered in Illya’s ear as he turned him over to check the wounds on his back.  
  
The damage he saw made him physically ill. All the guilt, all the regrets over the past several months rose to the surface and Napoleon suddenly felt his stomach churn. He did everything within his power to quell the urge to vomit.  
  
His partner, his closest friend, was laying still next to him, unable to move. Practically dead. His wounds were still bleeding. Swelling around the broken bones in his chest was hot to the touch. The Russian was in worse condition than Napoleon at this point of the interrogation, so Thrush obviously did not plan on drugging Kuryakin for information.  
  
Napoleon knew the torture would not end until Illya either gave in or died. He toyed with the idea of killing Kuryakin himself, literally putting his friend out of this misery. He felt for the pulse one more time, debating whether or not to finish the job Thrush had started, but the unsteady pulse indicated that there was still life in the Russian. Napoleon couldn’t bring himself to kill him.  
  
Solo blinked back the tears as he whispered “I’m sorry” again into Illya’s unhearing ear. He raised Kuryakin’s head and cradled it in on his lap, sitting silent and numb.  
  
Illya Kuryakin never regained consciousness.  
  
A short while later, Charles Madison was ordered back into the cell to retrieve Illya. He wordlessly pulled the Russian off the ground and over his shoulder again and strolled out of the room.  
  
Napoleon Solo sat silent on the floor. He silently cursed himself for not protesting Illya’s removal, for not demanding he be given medical care, for not making false promises of the Russian’s cooperation. Perhaps Illya was better off dead, Solo rationalized. Better than the hellish anguish he had lived the past six weeks.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
At some point, Solo did not know when, Charles Madison returned to take him out of the cell. He bodily escorted Napoleon back to his living quarters to change clothes. Solo looked down at himself as he crossed the threshold. His khaki shirt and pants were covered with blood - Illya’s blood, as were his hands and arms.  
  
“Get yourself cleaned up and changed,” Madison ordered him. “Be ready in fifteen minutes!”  
  
Napoleon numbly nodded, barely comprehending what Madison was saying. But the message did sink in, and he silently removed his clothing and went into the bathroom to wash off the blood.  
  
He looked at his image in the bathroom mirror. His face was pale as a ghost, gaunt. His hands shook as he began washing off the blood, his throat once again constriction as he saw the red streaks swirling down the drain.  
  
 _How the hell could I have done this?_  
  
In exactly fifteen minutes Charles Madison was back for him. He escorted Solo to an area of Thrush headquarters he had never seen.  
  
They went to a glass-enclosed observation room a storey above what appeared to be a sterile room with sinks, a metal table in the center. Cabinets lining the perimeter and several metal doors approximately a meter squared stood at one end. Upon closer scrutiny, the agent determined it was a morgue. He shuddered inwardly, hoping his reaction was not apparent to Charles Madison or the cameras which kept constant vigilance on him.  
  
A conveyer belt near the rear wall led to a set of small doors in the far corner. A series or red warning lights, unlit and darkened at the moment, were above the aperture. A small porthole several meters past the door would give a viewer the ability to see what was happening within.  
  
“What’s that?” Solo asked flatly, pointing to the conveyer belt and small doors.  
  
Madison smirked. “That’s your friend’s final stop. He’s being cremated today.”  
  
Napoleon could feel the blood draining from his face.  
  
Moments later, two men in white lab coats wheeled a very still Illya Kuryakin into the room below and carelessly placed him on the conveyer belt. One of them, the shorter of the two, looked up at the observation booth and waited for Charles Madison’s nod before depressing the “Start” button.  
  
The low hum of a motor sounded through the thick glass. Napoleon could feel the vibrations reverberate beneath his feet. It took only a few seconds for the mechanisms to crank into place before the conveyer belt began slowly moving Illya toward the small set of doors at its end.  
  
He stood stone-faced as he watched the rubber belting move Kuryakin’s body. Stone-faced until he noticed an almost imperceptible tremor in Illya’s right hand.  
  
“He’s still alive!” Solo gasped. Immediately he pivoted towards the emergency shut-off button he had noticed the moment he entered the observation room.  
  
Charles Madison blocked his path, but Napoleon barged past him, felling him with one swift stroke of his right crutch.  
  
The emergency shut-off was inoperable. The belt kept creeping slowly towards the crematory door. Napoleon dropped his crutches and grabbed the only other object in the room - a stool. He quickly hobbled to the window and swung the stool into it. It did not break on first impact, but the noise it made resounded through the chamber below.  
  
Napoleon caught quick sight of blue eyes staring at him through the cracked glass. He swung the stool again, this time shattering the window. Steadying himself on the windowframe, he pushed out the remaining bottom glass with the cast covering his left leg.  
  
Within seconds he had lowered his body to less than four feet to the floor below. Gritting his teeth, he released his hands and dropped to the concrete. Pain shot through his left leg as the thigh-high cast clunked upon impact.  
  
He immediately spun around to pull his Illya off the conveyer belt. More time had lapsed than he realized and the lower portion of Kuryakin’s body was already through the small door. Solo hopped and hobbled to the Russian’s retreating body with outstretched fingers, hoping to gain grasp of some part of him.  
  
He was too late.  
  
The automatic door slid shut and locked as his fingertips reached it. He pulled and pounded on the metal, but it would not relent.  
  
Red warning lights above the door illuminated, warning those nearby that the door would heat up, and to keep a distance. As Solo pounded he felt the temperature increase.  
  
He ran to the side of the chamber and stared through the small glass porthole. Napoleon watched as the flames grew higher, hotter. He caught sight of Illya’s eyes darting around helplessly, finally locking on to his. The UNCLE CEA tried breaking the glass with his fists, but his attempts were useless. He watched the blue eyes finally close and the flames draw higher.  
  
Solo finally shut his eyes in exasperation, trying to block out the images of Illya Kuryakin laying amidst the flames, dazed, unable to free himself from the inferno about to consume him. It was at this point that Napoleon Solo vowed to crush the organization that took away everything he cherished, his work, his friends, his freedom. If it was the last thing he did, he would bring Thrush down.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
About five months had passed since Illya Kuryakin’s death. As hard as he tried to stuff the emotions associated with the circumstances, Napoleon Solo could not rid his mind of those final moments he spent with his friend. They consumed him. He was overwhelmed with guilt and grief, not only for Illya’s death, but for the death of UNCLE.  
  
Little by little, Thrush began extending its talons into areas previously out of their grasp. UNCLE had prevented the epidemic in the past. But now that UNCLE was slowly being decimated, one installation, one headquarters at a time, Thrush was gaining control.  
  
Napoleon had taken the responsibility solely on his shoulders, after all, it was he who divulged the secrets and working data necessary to bring down such an organization. Deep inside he realized he was chastising himself for something over which he had no control. The information had been extracted from him through the use of drugs after having been physically beaten almost to the point of death. Damn! Why did UNCLE’s conditioning fail him?  
  
Adding to the guilt of being the ultimate traitor was the manner in which Thrush now treated him. He was respected. He was slowly rising within the ranks of Thrush.  
  
But Thrush knew who they were dealing with, and although he appeared outwardly complacent, they did not doubt that beneath the charming, agreeable surface festered the spirit of the UNCLE agent he had once been. He was given a little more freedom, but his access throughout the installation was remained limited.  
  
There were no edicts demanding him to stay within the walls of the satrap, but Napoleon Solo knew he was a marked man. Word filtered through the communications department that the few remaining UNCLE installations still in operation had a price on his head. They wanted him back, dead or alive... preferable alive. Any thoughts of leaving the secured walls of Thrush would quickly dissipate.  
  
As part of his new status with Thrush, Solo was given valets and personnel at his disposal. Napoleon chuckled inwardly with the offer of the valets. He knew their main focus was to keep an eye on him, to keep the powers-to-be aware of his every movement. Three men were assigned to him on a rotating basis, and one was always available.  
  
And Alicia. Lovely Alicia. Every man’s dream. Young, beautiful, sexy as hell. Great in bed. And she could even hold a conversation in her less intimate moments. Despite her attributes, Napoleon knew that she was conveniently bestowed upon him to keep up the vigil at night. It was because of this that he felt less inclined to talk around her, to say anything at all. The once charming and witty lover, the man who knew the exact words to say to a woman, felt the well run dry.  
  
The sex was good. Sometimes great. On the rare occasions he would allow himself to enjoy the moment with Alicia, the sex was stimulating and satisfying for both of them. Otherwise, he simply did not care.  
  
In the five months since Illya’s death his physical wounds had healed, but each time he looked at the scars marring his body and the gash across his cheek, and each time he felt pain while walking on the leg which was shattered in several places, the memories rushed back. He wondered if the depression would ever end.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Lenny Simmons, his valet-du-jour, had breakfast waiting for him by the time he finished showering and dressing. Two softly scrambled eggs and toast with black coffee. The usual.  
  
The morning paper sat beside his plate. _The New York Times._ Thrush’s little joke, he assumed. There was usually a story or two about UNCLE’s demise, followed by another story about what Thrush had taken over as a result. Governments worldwide seemed incapable of staunching their spread. Their venomous poison had begun seeping into every vein of society. Solo closed his eyes and shook his head slightly at the date - February 4th - almost seven months to the day since he was taken prisoner. Seven months since all this began.  
  
“Is your breakfast all right?” Simmons asked, trying to break the awkward silence.  
  
Napoleon looked up, smiled a little and nodded. “Yes.” He went back to reading the newspaper.  
  
“What time did Alicia leave this morning?” Napoleon asked as he sipped his coffee.  
  
“About an hour before you woke, Mr. Solo,” Simmons reported. “She said she had an early appointment.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Solo mumbled while finishing the last sip of the brew.  
  
“What is on your agenda for today?”  
  
Solo smiled. “Probably nothing as exciting as Alicia’s agenda. I just told the R & D boys that I would stop by to look at some of their new inventions.”  
  
“So the boss has you working with Research and Development now, eh?”  
  
“Yup. I guess all those years working for UNCLE have paid off, haven’t they?”  
  
Simmons chuckled. He did like working for Napoleon. The former UNCLE agent seemed less stuffy and austere than the majority of Thrushies he had previously been assigned to.  
  
“Give me a few minutes to clean up and I’ll give you a hand, Mr. Solo.”  
  
“That won’t really be necessary, Lenny. I’m just going to look over some of their recent toys and give them my opinion. It shouldn’t take me more than an hour. I’ll see you later.”  
  
With that, Napoleon Solo got up and walked out of the door. He smirked to himself knowing that Lenny Simmons was probably in communication with the higher-ups at that very moment, warning them to keep an eye on him.  
  
En route to the R & D lab, Napoleon detoured to the Communications room. He knocked then opened the door slightly, sticking in his head and smiling broadly. “Any more ‘Solo spottings’?” he mused to Jim and Chuck, the morning regulars.  
  
“Not this morning, Mr. S,” Chuck shot back. “Had a few good ones yesterday. One sighting had you exiting the Metro at Revere Beach in Massachusetts. Another swore you were an ‘extra’ in ‘Doctor Zhivago’.”  
  
“Aah, the glamorous life of a spy,” Napoleon returned.  
  
Chuck turned to Jim. “Can you hold the fort down for a few minutes? I need a cup of coffee.”  
  
“Sure,” Jim answered. “Got mine on the way in. Take your time. It’s been a slow morning.”  
  
Chuck got up and stretched then headed for the door. Napoleon walked over to the console where Chuck had just been and perched on its edge.  
  
“Slow morning, eh?” Solo asked.  
  
Jim was the quieter of the two, not the one to generally engage in small talk.  
  
“Yeah,” Jim sighed. He chuckled. “What was that you just said about the life of a spy being glamourous?”  
  
“Never a dull moment, I’ve always said.”  
  
Jim nodded and picked up his coffee cup, taking a sip of the dark, bitter brew.  
  
Napoleon leaned over the console the moment Jim was replacing his cup, knocking it over. He jumped up, apologizing profusely.  
  
“I can’t believe what a klutz I am,” Solo muttered, looking around for something to sop up the brown liquid. Fortunately there were a few errant napkins from another coffee break not far from the console.  
  
“It’s OK, Mr. S,” Jim assured him.  
  
After the mess was sopped up, Napoleon gathered all the napkins and deposited them in the trash.  
  
“This won’t be a problem with your boss, will it?” Solo asked.  
  
“I doubt it. We put in long hours here, and if it takes caffeine to keep us alert, then he’ll turn a blind eye.”  
  
A few minutes later, Chuck returned with his coffee. Napoleon abruptly stood up, and using the last clean napkin which he held on to, he wiped any remaining coffee from the console.  
  
He also returned the microphone’s frequency mode from ‘general’ to ‘secured’ before leaving.


	3. Chapter 3

Solo spent the better part of two hours with the Research and Development department. Inwardly, he was amused by this facet of Thrush’s use with him. One side of him was flattered that they valued his experience (although as an enemy agent) enough to tap into his expertise, but the other side of him conscientiously did everything within his power to thwart their designs. He was subtle. Good at it, too. More Thrush agents than he could remember met with difficulty using their newest devices, courtesy of Napoleon Solo.  
  
Slightly after one in the afternoon, Napoleon headed to the commissary for a light bite. As he neared the dining hall’s doors the sound of alarms began blaring through the installation in repetitive staccato sounds, followed by longer blasts. The satrapy was under siege, and the alarms were signaling everyone to ready their defense.  
  
Solo looked around, not knowing exactly what was expected of him under these circumstances, so he grabbed a rifle and dodged his way to the installation’s nerve center to see what havoc he could impose.  
  
Still in Thrush uniform, his presence at the command center was never questioned. He waved the rifle and barked orders for personnel to leave and arm themselves, claiming that they were about to be under lockdown conditions. Napoleon’s voice was authoritarian; no one dared defy him.  
  
After clearing the room, Solo immediately began smashing the control consoles with the butt of his rifle. Those too stubborn to smash were riddled with bullets. Sparks flashed and smoke began curling up from the areas he destroyed.  
  
The alarms continued blaring and soon the sound of running footsteps neared the command center. Assuming it was Thrush’s own coming to secure the command center, Napoleon readied himself with the rifle aimed at the portal, ready to take down as many Thrushmen as possible before they finally overtook him.  
  
The door was blown open. Through the smoke Napoleon Solo saw three black-clad men pressed against the outer wall, making sure the room was clear before they rushed in. One caught sight of him and held up his hand for the party to halt.  
  
Behind Napoleon, the console changed from a smoky smolder to a small fire. It began to spread quickly, distracting the agent from the activity at the door for a split second.  
  
With his vision partially obscured by smoke, Napoleon did not see one of the attack party slither into the room. By the time the intruder was visible, Solo froze and audibly gasped.  
  
He shut his eyes tightly and re-opened them, not sure of what he had just seen.  
  
The man standing before him turned and ordered the rest of his party enter. Without saying another word he took firm hold of Solo’s arm and began guiding him out the door.  
  
“I can’t!” Solo rasped, the words proving difficult to speak. His eyes were open wide, as though he’d seen a ghost. He tried disengaging the hand which held him.  
  
“What the hell’s the problem, Napoleon?” Illya Kuryakin asked. “This place is going to fall down around us in a few minutes if we don’t get out of here.”  
  
“You didn’t die?” Napoleon asked, ignoring the Russian’s demand to leave.  
  
“Not yet, my friend. Let’s go!”  
  
Solo looked over his shoulder. The fires on the command console had intensified and were now licking up the walls. The smoke and fumes began to choke him.  
  
Napoleon shook his head. “No.” He tried pulling away again. his loyalties suddenly divided between going with Kuryakin and facing UNCLE, or staying behind and dying on his own terms. He knew too well if UNCLE got their hands on him, he’d be put through the wringer.  
  
But Illya’s grasp proved too strong and he was led out of the room.  
  
“I can’t. I’ve done too much damage to UNCLE,” Solo insisted.  
  
The remaining agents in Kuryakin’s party helped usher him down the hall.  
  
“We can discuss that later. Right now, my orders are to get you out of here.”  
  
They rushed to a stairwell, avoiding the elevator because of the smoke and flames beginning to filter through the installation. Napoleon lagged behind a bit, not in peak form. His leg began throb. Kuryakin was right alongside him, hurrying him along.  
  
“Where are you taking me?” Solo asked as they were heading up to the top floor.  
  
“Back to headquarters,” Kuryakin answered, annoyed with the questions. The Russian was confused. Where else did he think they would take him?  
  
“You’ve regrouped?”  
  
“Napoleon,” Illya said, pushing his partner against a wall to avoid two well-aimed Thrush bullets. The Russian quickly aimed and downed the Thrushmen. He continued without skipping a beat. “...I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this will have to wait.”  
  
The foursome met with more Thrush bullets, each time Illya and his team taking the initiative to protect Napoleon. The CEA seemed slow to respond to the danger they were in. One of Illya’s men, Ben Kinsler, picked up a pistol from a fallen Thrushmen and handed it to Napoleon.  
  
“It goes with your outfit,” Kuryakin mused, inching his way towards the exit with Napoleon in tow.  
  
Solo momentarily looked surprised to be holding a pistol, then his instincts for self preservation clicked into place and he began shooting at the Thrush guards still trying to protect their satrapy.  
  
At the landing for the top floor, Napoleon stopped momentarily.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Illya asked.  
  
“Did someone get Campbell’s records?”  
  
“Campbell?” Kuryakin repeated. “Norris X. Campbell?”  
  
Solo nodded. “In their medical suite.”  
  
“Let’s go!” Illya instructed the team. Dr. Norris X. Campbell’s files would be an unexpected prize. UNCLE had been interested in his work for quite some time, but never had any actual documentation of his studies. If they could get their hands of them...  
  
Napoleon hesitated, not really knowing why.  
  
“I don’t know what the hell happened to you, Napoleon, buy we’ll find out. Trust me on this one, OK?”  
  
Illya and the three UNCLE agents began rummaging through file cabinets for anything they could get their hands on. The Russian looked up at his partner. “I could use your help.”  
  
Solo nodded and began going through the one remaining file cabinet. He pulled several files of interest, many of which had his name on the tab. He found a box partially pushed under a counter, dumped its contents and placed the files inside. The other UNCLE agents followed suit.  
  
Illya’s communicator sounded as they exited the medical suite.  
  
“Kuryakin,” he spoke into it as they trotted down the hall. The stairwell was just ahead on the left.  
  
“You have six minutes to clear the facility,” the voice on the other end warned.  
  
“We’ll have our tea cups in hand by then. Kuryakin out!”  
  
Illya, Napoleon, and the three-man team surfaced from the kitchen-and-bath showroom with more than three minutes to spare. The helicopters blades were turning, ready for take-off.  
  
Napoleon looked up at the sky. The first true light of day he’d seen in months. The air was unusually warm for February. Trees green with foliage. He hadn’t seen trees in quite a while. He slowed to look around a bit more, confused by what he saw. The immediate world had a surreal quality about it, greatly disconcerting him.  
  
The grip on Solo’s arm remained strong, pulling him towards the waiting helicopter. The prospect of facing UNCLE’s remaining stronghold scared him. He halted and shook his head, again repeating “I can’t!”  
  
“I’m afraid there’s no room for discussion on the matter,” Illya hissed to him, continuing to pull.  
  
With an effortless motion, Napoleon Solo balled up the fist of his free hand and walloped Kuryakin across the chin. The release was immediate and he began to run towards the tree line, about one hundred feet north of where they stood.  
  
What Napoleon did not see was the UNCLE security team disembark the helicopter and begin their chase. What he did hear in the faint distance was the sound of a gun magazine clip being snapped into place. Seconds later the prick of a sleep dart stung his shoulder, spinning him as he fell. Before the inevitable blackness overtook him, he saw Illya laying prone on the ground, lowering the gun he had just fired.  
  


  
  
  
_Napoleon Solo looked down through the thick plate glass to the floor below. Illya Kuryakin lay still on the conveyer belt inching him towards the low doors of the crematorium.  
  
The former UNCLE agent gulped back his pain.  
  
Behind him stood Charles Madison overseeing Kuryakin’s cremation, forcing Napoleon to bear witness to something Thrush knew would be unbearably difficult for him.  
  
But Solo did so commendably. Hopefully no one would notice his knuckles turning white as his fingers wrapped tightly around the handgrips of his crutches. The small beads of sweat forming on his brow would hopefully be overlooked by the cameras he knew were keeping watch on his every move. Perhaps no one would see how difficult it was for him to breathe.  
  
He stood stone-faced as he watched the rubber belting remove Kuryakin’s body from the room below. Stone-faced until he noticed an almost imperceptible tremor in Illya’s right hand.  
  
“He’s still alive!” Solo gasped. Immediately he pivoted towards the emergency shut-off button he had noticed the moment he entered the observation room.  
  
Madison blocked his path, but Napoleon barged past him, felling him with one swift stroke of his right crutch.  
  
The emergency shut-off was inoperable. The belt kept creeping slowly towards the crematory door. Napoleon dropped his crutches and grabbed the only other object in the room - a stool. He quickly hobbled to the window and swung the stool into it. It did not break on first impact, but the noise it made resounded through the chamber below.  
  
Napoleon caught quick sight of blue eyes staring at him through the cracked glass. He swung the stool again, this time shattering the window. Steadying himself on the windowframe, he pushed out the remaining bottom glass with the cast covering his left leg.  
  
Within seconds he had lowered his body to less than four feet to the floor below. Gritting his teeth, he released his hands and dropped to the concrete. Pain shot through his left leg as the thigh-high cast clunked upon impact._   
  
_He immediately spun around to pull his Illya off the conveyer belt. More time had lapsed than he realized and the lower portion of Kuryakin’s body was already through the small door. Solo hopped and hobbled to the Russian’s retreating body with outstretched fingers, hoping to gain grasp of some part of him.  
  
He was too late.  
  
The automatic door slid shut and locked as his fingertips reached it. He pulled and pounded on the metal, but it would not relent.  
  
The red warning lights above the door illuminated, warning those nearby that the door would heat up, and to keep a distance. As Solo pounded he felt the temperature increase.  
  
He ran to the side of the chamber and stared through the small glass porthole. Napoleon watched as the flames grew higher, hotter. He caught sight of Illya’s eyes darting around helplessly, finally locking on to his. The former UNCLE CEA tried breaking the glass with his fists, but his attempts were futile. He watched the blue eyes finally close and the flames engulf him.  
  
Solo finally shut his eyes in exasperation, trying to block out the images of Illya Kuryakin laying amidst the flames, dazed, unable to free himself from the inferno about to consume him.  
  
_

* * * * *

Napoleon bolted upright in bed, gasping and soaked in sweat. Another nightmare. Damn! When would they cease. He felt he should be immune to them by now. His heart beat furiously in his chest, pounding with a ferocity he hadn’t felt in months.  
  
The light in the room was muted. His head felt heavy with the aftermath of drugs, his thoughts unclear.  
  
It took only seconds to assess his surroundings. Another something medical, he categorized. Judging by the way he felt, he assumed Dr. Norris X. Campbell had extracted more information from him, leaving him with the usual mental fuzziness and disorientation.  
  
He closed his eyes and lay back down. He now had vague memories of seeing Illya Kuryakin again. Perhaps another side affect of the drugs Campbell had forced on him.  
  
Illya Kuryakin. He missed the prickly Russian, missed his wit, his intelligence, his dependability, his camaraderie. He was one hell of a partner. Napoleon had spent too many days mourning the loss. His cognizant side told him to move on, not to dwell in the past, but his emotional side was stuck like a broken record. His depression began flowing back... if it had really left at all.  
  
“Mr. Solo?”  
  
The agent did not recognize the voice.  
  
“Mr. Solo!” the voice repeated, nudging his foot. He obviously knew better than to get too close. “I know you’re waking up. The sedation should be wearing off by now.”  
  
Napoleon sighed quietly and slowly opened his eyes. The lights were now on. Blurriness obscured his thoughts and vision, the same blur he had experienced upon waking when Thrush’s drugs were once again present. The man standing in the room with him appeared fuzzy.  
  
There was an awkward silence.  
  
“I’m Doctor Jonas Fine. I assume you remember me,” the doctor commented, chuckling slightly. How could Solo forget? After all the headaches Napoleon caused... “How are you feeling?”  
  
Yes. Napoleon remembered Dr. Fine. He remembered all the times the UNCLE doctor patched him up, argued with him, even restrained him on occasion to keep him from prematurely exiting Medical. But the agent wasn’t completely certain if this was the man he professed to be; Thrush must be playing another one of their mind games.  
  
Feeling a little safer since Napoleon woke, Dr. Fine ventured closer. Despite the blurriness, the agent did notice that there was no Thrush insignia on the lab coat. He looked down at his own chest and saw he was wearing a generic hospital gown.  
  
“You tell me,” Napoleon responded, his voice slightly hoarse and thick. He felt confused, unable to reconcile his surroundings. He wanted to stall until he could gain some foothold of reality.  
  
He fully expected to see Dr. Campbell nearby, gloating about what a ‘good job’ the UNCLE traitor had done spewing out more sensitive information about The Command. Despite that, he did not want to convey his confusion and kept his answers vague.  
  
“Physically, you appear fit as a fiddle and in the peak of health,” the doctor explained.  
  
 _“Fit as a fiddle?”_ Solo chuckled silently. _“The peak of health?”_ He would not have chosen to describe himself in those exact terms. He still felt like shit!  
  
“You’re well fed, there’s barely a scratch on you, nothing appears to be broken or sprained...but...” Dr. FIne explained.  
  
“But?...” Solo prompted.  
  
“Your aggression with Mr. Kuryakin has raised a few eyebrows, as did some of the comments you made to the rescue team.”  
  
Napoleon looked at him blankly, then shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responded. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen him, and the last time I did, the ‘aggression’, as you put it, was not from me.” He paused a moment. “Rescue team?”  
  
“Yes. Oh... and Mr. Kuryakin said you’re walking with a slight limp.”  
  
Solo nodded a little. “My leg had been broken in several places.”  
  
“When was this?”  
  
“Seven months ago.”  
  
Jonas Fine furrowed his eyebrows, as if momentarily in thought. “Seven months ago, you say?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, there appears to be nothing at all wrong with your leg, nothing that would cause a limp.”  
  
“It hurts.”  
  
“Badly?”  
  
“Badly enough to feel it.”  
  
“Hmmm.”  
  
The phone rang. The man in the white lab coat answered it and nodded his head before returning the receiver. He turned back to Napoleon.  
  
“I need to step out for a few minutes, Mr. Solo. The boss needs an update on your condition,” the doctor apologized. “I assume you’ll stay put until I return?”  
  
Napoleon’s body felt like a lump of lead laying in the bed. “Do I have a choice?” He knew his choices in Thrush were limited. They had ingrained that into him long ago.  
  
“There are always choices, Mr. Solo. But you do have a visitor...”  
  
“A visitor?” Napoleon asked. His cloudy mind tried cranking into gear.  
  
Dr. Fine nodded and walked towards the door. “He’s awake,” the doctor announced quietly to the visitor outside.  
  
Illya Kuryakin rushed past him, almost knocking him down in the process. The Russian stopped short when he saw Napoleon staring at him wide eyed, mouth opened, at a loss for words and breath. His face paled.  
  
“What’s wrong, Napoleon?” Kuryakin asked, hurrying to his friend’s side. A purpled bruise glared from the left side of his jaw. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”  
  
He had. Solo shut his eyes tightly and bared his teeth, as if in pain. His head suddenly ached, his chest was tight. He desperately needed to get away.  
  
The Russian sat down next to him.  
  
“Napoleon?” Illya spoke softly. He shook his friend’s shoulder. “It’s all right.  
  
Solo broke out in a sweat. His face and neck reddened. “Where have you taken me?” he asked in a shaky voice. His eyes darted about looking for some means of escape.  
  
“You’re back in New York.”  
  
The dark haired agent looked Kuryakin in the eyes. “How... how did you manage to...?” The concept of UNCLE’s NY HQ being up and operational in the few short months since its demise seemed impossible.  
  
Illya chuckled. “Sorry I had to knock you out, my friend, but Thrush’s drugs were making you do unusual things. After you slugged me and began to run away, a sleep dart was the most expedient solution.”  
  
“Th...that’s not what...I meant,” Napoleon muttered softly, shaking his head. “This can’t be happening.”  
  
He tried breaking through the fogginess to find some reality in his situation. His immediate assumption was that this was another Thrush ruse to give him a false sense of security, make him comfortable, hoping to coax more information from him. After all, Illya Kuryakin died months ago. He saw it with his own two eyes, watched the conveyer belt inching the body to the oven. His nightmares constantly refreshed his memory. Solo squinted his eyes while he scanned Illya up and down. _Sure looks like him!_ the agent thought.  
  
“You seem disoriented, Napoleon.”  
  
Solo snorted. “Now that’s an understatement. I can’t figure out who you really are, where the hell you took me and how the organization managed to survive Thrush’s attack.”  
  
“I don’t follow...”  
  
“Don’t be obtuse. I can see through this ruse. I’ve had enough...” without finishing his sentence, Napoleon threw back the blanket and threw his legs over the bed. Illya moved in closer to intercept his departure, only to be elbowed away.  
  
“Get away from me!” Solo snarled as he stood.  
  
The room began to sway, its motion causing his equilibrium to falter. Before Napoleon knew what was happening, he found himself being physically supported by Illya and helped back into bed.  
  
“OK, OK... let’s start from the beginning.” Illya’s voice did not signal the alarm he really felt. “We intercepted your distress call this morning.”  
  
“My distress call?”  
  
“Yes. Don’t you remember? It was on one of Thrush’s non-secured lines, floating across the airwaves. You... or someone... tapped out ‘S.O.L.O.’ in Morse Code. We picked up the signal and determined its point of transmission. We had suspected Thrush had a satrap in that area, but your signal helped us locate the exact spot.”  
  
Napoleon sat quietly for a moment, looking away as he re-hashed his morning activities. He did remember going into Thrush’s communications’ room, spilling the coffee...  
  
“My team’s instructions were to seek and destroy,” Illya continued. He smiled ever so slightly. “...and find you, of course.”  
  
“But how did you get back on your feet so quickly?”  
  
“I don’t follow...”  
  
“Illya, headquarters was completely destroyed. How did you manage to set up shop again.”  
  
“You’ve lost me, Napoleon. Nothing has changed. We’re still here.”  
  
Solo shook his head. He began sweating again, obviously nervous. “No. No. I saw the reports. The pictures. You were completely decimated.” He tried getting off the bed again, but Kuryakin stopped him.  
  
“What pictures?”  
  
Napoleon shrugged him off, but Illya was insistent.  
  
“The ones Thrush took when they invaded. There was absolutely nothing left. No one survived.”  
  
“You really don’t know where you are, do you?” Illya asked, now genuinely concerned.  
  
“No.” He gulped. The breaths were not coming fast enough.  
  
“You’re in UNCLE’s New York Headquarters. The medical unit. This doesn’t look familiar?” Illya asked sweeping his arm to dramatically display the room.  
  
“Or a reasonable facsimile.”  
  
“You’re picking up my bad habits, my friend. I’m the one who usually doubts everything. No, this our bona fide medical suite.” Kuryakin stood and stepped aside, making the nightstand fall into Solo’s line of vision. “Remember this?” the Russian asked pointed to a deep gouge in the side of the nightstand.  
  
Napoleon looked at it, furrowed his eyebrows, and looked back at Kuryakin.  
  
“Well, do you remember?”  
  
“I did that ... or something like that, ages ago, didn’t I?”  
  
“Yes, you did. You threw your food tray into it when the doctors informed you that you needed to stay overnight for observation. It stands as a timely reminder for them all.”  
  
Napoleon shook his head. He did not put it past Thrush to recreate UNCLE’s medical section. After all, they had stormed the facility...  
  
The door to the unit swept open. Napoleon Solo again paled as Alexander Waverly walked through the portal, gulping in air to avert the breathlessness he felt would suffocate him.  
  
Dr. Fine followed.  
  
Waverly rushed to the bed where Napoleon lay. Solo looked at him suspiciously.  
  
“I believe you have some explaining to do, Mr. Solo.”  
  
Napoleon could not find the words to answer this man. Confusion continued to overwhelm him. For all intents and purposes, it appeared to be Alexander Waverly. It looked like him, sounded like him, even smelled like him. But he, like Illya, was dead. He had seen the photographs of Waverly’s throat being slit... saw the image of him, blood-soaked and limp, after he had died.  
  
Mr. Waverly, Dr. Fine, and Illya Kuryakin watched as the physical symptoms of extreme stress took over Napoleon Solo. His skin was pale and clammy, his breaths coming in short gasps. His head and chest ached.  
  
The head of Section One ignored Solo’s symptoms, and raised a hand to halt Dr. Fine when he was about to intercede.  
  
“What happened to you?” Waverly asked sternly.  
  
Napoleon shook his head. “I’m not sure. I do know that I was responsible undermining UNCLE’s operations. Worldwide. I don’t understand how you’ve survived... I... I saw the photos...”  
  
“What photos, Mr. Solo?” Waverly demanded. “And what do you mean by ‘undermining UNCLE’s operations’?”  
  
“I am so sorry. They had me for so long, tortured me, and when that didn’t work, drugged me,” Napoleon answered quietly. “I don’t know exactly what I told them, but THRUSH was able to infiltrate and destroy many of our operations.”  
  
Now Alexander Waverly looked confused, his bushy eyebrows raising.  
  
“Continue, Mr. Solo.”  
  
Napoleon gulped and looked this man straight in the eye. “I honestly don’t know how Thrush managed to do it... manufacture your look-alikes... or if you survived the attacks... or if I’m imagining all this... but this can’t be.”  
  
“And why not?”  
  
Solo’s gaze scanned the three men standing before him.  
  
“Because you’re all dead.” Napoleon pointed to Waverly. “I saw the photographs Thrush took after they destroyed New York’s headquarters. Your throat was slit.” He turned to Illya. “I watched you being cremated.” He looked at Dr. Fine, “The photos Thrush took showed the entire headquarters demolished.”  
  
“And when did all this happen?” Waverly prompted.  
  
“Seven months ago,” Solo replied. Then he sighed. “Seven long months ago.”  
  
“That’s impossible, Napoleon,” Illya said. “You’ve only been gone three days.”  
  
Solo looked at Kuryakin, squinting against the light that was now causing his head to pound worse than before.  
  
“What did you just say?”  
  
“I said that you’ve only been gone three days. Whatever you’ve experienced... or perceived to have experienced... happened in that period of time.”  
  
A short silence fell upon the room.  
  
“That can’t be,” Napoleon finally said. “I...I remember being there. Their... their drugs, their...” his voice trailed off, “...torture.” His hand rose to the scar on his cheek, his constant reminder of Thrush’s brutality.  
  
The cheek felt smooth, the disfiguration gone.  
  
“Are you looking for this?” Illya asked, fishing through the breast pocket of his jacket. He finally found what he was looking for and waved the plastic ‘scar’ in front of Napoleon’s eyes. “It’s quite a good faux scar, you realize.” He smiled ever so slightly.  
  
His confusion now compounded, Solo reached back and untied his hospital gown. In seconds he wriggled his arms free and looked at his upper body. The scars were gone.  
  
“Wait a moment...” Illya cautioned while Solo’s arms were still slightly raised. He reached to the right side of Napoleon’s chest and picked at a spot with his fingernail. “I missed this one.” He peeled off a final faux scar. He chuckled. “They look like the real thing.”  
  
“The pain in my leg...?” Napoleon asked Dr. Fine.  
  
“... Is all in your head, Mr. Solo. Neither leg has not been broken in quite some time, so whatever you’re feeling has been induced by Thrush’s pharmacological influences.”  
  
“...and Thrush never invaded...?”  
  
“No,” Dr. Fine smiled, “and obviously the three of us are all alive and well. Fortunately, we have Dr. Campbell’s files so we can study his findings on mind control... yours in particular.”  
  
“I regret to say this, Mr. Solo, but you will have to be treated as suspect until we get a better handle on exactly what transpired at Thrush,” Waverly warned him. “So you are not at liberty to leave the Medical suite. You will be monitored on a 24-hour basis, and all people entering and leaving this area will need security clearance. I am not requiring restraints, unless Dr. Fine deems otherwise.”  
  
Jonas Fine shook his head. “I doubt that will be necessary.”  
  
“I assume you’ll be giving us your full cooperation, Mr. Solo.”  
  
Napoleon nodded. “Of course.”  
  
“We have no idea whether or not you’ve compromised the security of this facility, or UNCLE in general. You realize, of course, that we will have to evaluated by our team of psychiatrists and go through rigid interrogations to determine exactly what you did and said during the past three days.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Very well. With that said, I’ll be heading back to my office,” Waverly announced, turning to leave. He directed his attention to Dr. Fine. “Keep me up to date on your findings. This could either turn out to be a major catastrophe or a minor inconvenience.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Waverly and Jonas Fine left the room, leaving Illya alone with Napoleon. The dark haired agent squinted at the Russian, then reached out his hand to feel Illya’s arm.  
  
“Yes,” Kuryakin quipped as he extended his arm in Solo’s reach. “I’m real... not a ghost or figment of your imagination.”  
  
“Hmmm.” Napoleon closed his eyes and leaned back. “Did Aunt Tillie water my plants while I was away?”  
  
Illya chuckled. He knew this was a ‘test’. “Come on now, Napoleon. We both know Aunt Tillie’s been dead at least three years.”  
  
Solo smiled. Perhaps this was reality.  
  


  
**Six Days Later**   
  


_Napoleon Solo looked down through the thick plate glass to the floor below. Illya Kuryakin lay still on the conveyer belt inching him towards the low doors of the crematorium.  
  
The former UNCLE agent gulped back his pain.  
  
Behind him stood Charles Madison overseeing Kuryakin’s cremation, forcing Napoleon to bear witness to something Thrush knew would be unbearably difficult for him.  
  
He stood stone-faced as he watched the rubber belting remove Kuryakin’s body from the room below. Stone-faced until he noticed an almost imperceptible tremor in Illya’s right hand.  
  
“He’s still alive!” Solo gasped. Immediately he pivoted towards the emergency shut-off button he had noticed the moment he entered the observation room.  
  
Madison blocked his path, but Napoleon barged past him, felling him with one swift stroke of his right crutch.  
  
The emergency shut-off was inoperable. The belt kept creeping slowly towards the crematory door. Napoleon dropped his crutches and grabbed the only other object in the room - a stool. He quickly hobbled to the window and swung the stool into it. It did not break on first impact, but the noise it made resounded through the chamber below.  
  
Napoleon caught quick sight of blue eyes staring at him through the cracked glass. He swung the stool again, this time shattering the window. Steadying himself on the windowframe, he pushed out the remaining bottom glass with the cast covering his left leg.  
  
Within seconds he had lowered his body to less than four feet to the floor below. Gritting his teeth, he released his hands and dropped to the concrete. Pain shot through his left leg as the thigh-high cast clunked upon impact._   
  
_He immediately spun around to pull his Illya off the conveyer belt. More time had lapsed than he realized and the lower portion of Kuryakin’s body was already through the small door. Solo hopped and hobbled to the Russian’s retreating body with outstretched fingers, hoping to gain grasp of some part of him.  
  
His fingertips grasped the tattered remnants of what was Kuryakin’s shirt. He pulled and tugged at the inert body, trying to prevent it from passing through the portal to the furnace.  
  
The Russian’s eyes once again opened at Napoleon’s touch, silently pleading for help.  
  
“I’m not letting you die this time!” Solo muttered under his breath.  
  
Adrenaline coursed through his veins and gave him the power to wrap his arms around Illya’s chest and the strength to pull him off the conveyer belt. They landed on the floor in a heap . Kuryakin quietly grunted in pain and winced before his eyes closed once more.  
_

* * * * *

  
  
Napoleon woke with a jolt again.  
  
The imagery remained.  
  
He lay back down and closed his eyes, reviewing the end of his dream. It had changed, hadn’t it? His heart beat less furiously and he was not drenched in sweat.  
  
Something was different. Napoleon looked around. He took a deep breath at his surroundings. His own bedroom. How in the hell did Thrush manage to recreate it? His bed, his bureau, his armoire, the paintings he and his aunt had helped him acquire when he moved into the penthouse, all the nick-nacks and ‘things’ that adorned his living space.  
  
He looked over to Alicia’s side of the bed. It had been slept in. He felt the mattress; it was cool. Another early for day for her, he assumed. Alicia’s scent was gone  
  
He looked down at his pajamas. Blue silk, like the ones he used to wear. No Thrush insignia over the heart. No sex last night, obviously.  
  
He slowly got up walked towards the partially opened bedroom door. The aroma of coffee greeted him. As he neared the door, he caught sight of himself in his full length mirror.  
  
The reflection of his face caught his attention. He moved closer to the glass, carefully examining the unblemished skin. He took off his pajama top and viewed his chest and arms, then turned to look at his back. Napoleon smiled; the scars were gone, his reality was slowly returning.  
  
He exited the bedroom, fully expecting to see Lenny Simmons reading the newspaper over his cup of coffee. Who he saw instead was Illya Kuryakin.  
  
Solo stopped in his tracks. Illya merely looked up over the top of the page, then continued his reading.  
  
“And good morning to you, too, Napoleon,” he said dryly.  
  
Napoleon looked back to his bedroom, then at Illya once more.  
  
“Was that you...?” he asked pointing to the bedroom.  
  
“And who else would it be?”  
  
“Alicia.”  
  
“There was no Alicia, my friend. A figment of your imagination. That was part of Thrush’s indoctrination.”  
  
“She never existed? We were engaged to be married.”  
  
Illya snorted. “Well, unless you wined her, dined her, and somehow bamboozled her into marrying you in three days, it never happened.”  
  
“Why didn’t you use the guest bedroom?”  
  
The Russian put down the paper and raised his eyebrows. “You don’t remember?”  
  
“I haven’t been remembering much lately Illya, so humor me, OK?”  
  
“The only way UNCLE would release you to recuperate at home was if I shadowed your every move. I figured that sleeping in the guest room would not adequately fulfill the requirements of the assignment. It was either that or being stuck at the mercy of Medical for Lord knows how long.”  
  
This time Napoleon chuckled. “And I do appreciate that.”  
  
“So after UNCLE spent five days putting you through the ringer and finally determining that you were indeed not a threat, I agreed to babysit you for a few more days, just to make sure you’re readjusting.”  
  
Napoleon smiled and nodded. This was all making sense now. He put his hands together. “So what’s for breakfast?”  
  
“You tell me. This is your kitchen, not mine. I made the coffee.”  
  
“But I’m recuperating.”  
  
“And I burn food. You complain about my cooking.”  
  
“Alicia would have had breakfast made already.”  
  
“I’m not Alicia. And I exist.”  
  
“You’re in charge of my welfare.”  
  
“Babysitting, yes. Catering, no. Besides, you’re a better cook.”  
  
“Touché!” Solo walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door, scanning its contents. “So...whaddayawant?”

**FINIS**


End file.
